


Dance ‘Till You’re Dead

by Anarfea



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BDSM, Bipolar Disorder, Closeted Character, Drug Use, Dysfunctional Relationships, Infidelity, Internalized Homophobia, Love, M/M, Mania, Mental Health Issues, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Story: The Adventure of the Bruce-Partington Plans, Suicide
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-11-18
Packaged: 2019-08-09 08:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16446041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anarfea/pseuds/Anarfea
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is a burglar, traveling the world pulling heists and hiding from his meddling older brother. Jim Moriarty offers him a new identity for a price Sherlock pays willingly--and for which he gets more than he bargained for.





	1. White Rabbit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HiddenLacuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenLacuna/gifts).



> Thanks to the wonderful HiddenLacuna, who was my second place bidder for the Fandom Trumps Hate auction, and who very generously offered to beta the first place winner's fic.
> 
> Lacuna wanted to explore the darker side of Jim's psyche and the way Jim and Sherlock can feed off one another's energy. I wanted to explore what I see as both characters experience with mental illness, specifically bipolar disorder, which I was myself recently diagnosed with. This is the result.
> 
> Be warned that this fic will go to dark places. It's a study in what happens when love, mental illness and criminality collide, Sheriarty style.

Sherlock flashes the blacklight stamp on his wrist (a white rabbit, who does this Moriarty think he is, Morpheus?) at the bouncer at the door. The thudding bass resonates deep in his chest as he steps down the long hallway which eventually opens out into a blue smoke and strobe filled room. He scans through the flashing lights for his contact. Go-go dancers in cages hang from the ceiling, clothed in white and red and black spandex--no, bodypaint--patterns of spades, clubs and diamonds. The lead singer on the stage in the back of the club is made up like the Red Queen, complete with an ermine stole and a heart-embossed velvet dress.

_Off with your head_

_Dance dance ‘till you’re dead_

 

“Shezza?” a voice shouts behind him.

He whirls around and comes face to face with a woman clad in a skin-tight, white latex dress with cap sleeves.

“I’m Irene!” the woman shouts over the noise. “Come with me.” She turns and begins weaving her way through the crowd. The low back of her dress shows off a stylized demon head painted (or tattooed) in blacklight ink across her shoulders. It makes her easy enough to follow. Sherlock snakes his way between dancers clad in fishnet and leather, writhing against each other to the beat.

_Heads will roll_

_Heads will roll_

_Heads will roll on the floor_

 

He rolls his eyes.

They make their way across the massive dance floor towards a room at the back. Sherlock follows Irene through an archway into a bar where people are drinking absinthe cocktails and snorting cocaine. His nostrils twitch. He’s starting to come down, losing the razor-sharp edge of the drug. His fingers itch for the little baggie in his front left pocket. But he pushes the urge down, follows Irene through a closed door flanked by bouncers. Inside is a lounge done all in white lit from below in blue neon. Irene sits down in a round, padded chair and motions for Sherlock to do likewise.

“Can I get you something to drink?” she aks.

Now that it’s quiet, except for some kind of trance music playing on low in the background, he catches that her British accent is affected. She’s American. Probably from the East. New Jersey?

“Whiskey. Neat.”

To his surprise, Irene gets it herself, stands up--on impossibly tall red-soled heels--and strides to the bar at the back of the room. She pours two finger widths into two glasses and returns to the table. Sherlock tries very hard to look at Irene’s bright blue eyes and sharp cheekbones, and not her nipples, which have clearly hardened during the walk from the swampy dance floor to the relative chill of the lounge. He suspects Irene isn’t wearing anything beneath the white latex.

“So, Shezza, I understand you’re in the market for a new identity.”

He nods. “Yes. I’ve been told that you... well, that he, does that sort of thing.”

“We do.”

“I haven’t much in the way of money--”

“We know.”

“But I thought perhaps Mr Moriarty might be interested in my unique services.”

“We are. But--” She takes a sip of her whiskey, leaving a smudge of red lipstick on the glass. “We’re more interested in your--connections.”

“No,” he blurts.

Irene arches an eyebrow. He suspects she isn’t used to hearing that word.

“That would be dangerous for everybody. I’ve been… avoiding my brother.”

“You mean hiding from him.”

“He doesn’t know I’m in Prague and I’d prefer to keep it that way, yes.”

“What we’re asking you to do doesn’t require you to make contact with your brother. There’s a certain Colonel I know--well, I know what he likes--” her smile is predatory. “He’s deep in debt, and Mr Moriarty has a great deal of money. Colonel Walter has offered to sell us a particular set of missile plans which we’re keen to acquire. But it wouldn’t do for him to be caught. Your job would be to pin the theft on someone else--anyone else--and to do such a good job of it that even the great Mycroft Holmes will not suspect the true culprit.”

He takes a sip of his drink. It’s good, tastes of woodsmoke and peat. He isn’t keen on doing anything to attract Mycroft’s attention. But the idea of outwitting him is appealing.

“Fine.”

Irene’s smile is radiant. “Thank you, love. You won’t regret it.”

“And will I get to meet Mr Moriarty tonight?”

Her grin widens. “If you like.” She stands up, knocks her drink back. He follows suit. The whisky burns its way down his throat, warming his chest. Irene walks out the way they came, then down the other end of the hallway. Two men in dark suits, these ones clearly _not_ club bouncers, stand at the end of this hall. One of them holds a handheld metal detector.

“Sorry,” says Irene.

Sherlock shrugs and holds up his arms, letting them pat him down. He hasn’t brought anything except the carbon-fibre blade in the toe of his boot, which they miss. The combat boots blended in with the leather trousers and slinky fishnet top he’d worn to pass unnoticed in the club.

The suits stay outside. Sherlock follows Irene into a richly-furnished room with red-papered walls. A small group of men is assembled at the center around a large mahogany table, smoking cigars and playing poker.

“Irene!” One of them, almost certainly Moriarty, extends an arm and motions her over. She makes her way over to him and leans in. They kiss, once on each cheek. “And who have you brought to me?”

She turns to face him. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Jim Moriarty,” he grins, eyes bright. “That job you did acquiring the Beryl Coronet was brilliant, though breaking it apart was a sin. I could have fenced it whole.”

Sherlock smiles. “But we weren’t acquainted, then.”

A shadow passes over Moriarty’s face. His features are sharp, and not particularly handsome, but there’s something arresting about his black eyes. They’re like voids, revealing nothing. Sherlock shivers.

“We hadn’t been introduced yet, no.” Moriarty continues. “But I’ve had my eye on you for some time.”

“I’m flattered, truly.”

“Well,” Moriarty pushes his chair back from the table. “Do you want in?”

“Yes. I told Irene--”

Moriarty holds up a hand, shushing him. “Not the job, no talking shop here. The _game_.”

“Oh.” Sherlocks cheeks heat. “I’m afraid I haven’t anything to wager. Except my kidneys.”

Moriarty throws back his head and laughs. “Careful. Half of these guys would take you up on that. But you shouldn’t have to wager your organs to play.” He pushes half his own chips to the space beside him. “Irene, be a love and get this man a chair.”

She returns with a padded leather side chair, which she places to Moriarty’s left.

“Texas Hold’em,” says Moriarty. He makes a pair of guns with his fingers.

Sherlock cocks a smile and slides into the chair.

The dealer’s button is in front of Moriarty, which makes Sherlock small blind. He doesn’t know what the small blind is.

“Three thousand Koruna,” says Moriarty.

Sherlock counts out his chips.

The big blind is a Japanese man, yakuza by the tattoos visible at his cuffs and collar. There’s a full bodysuit underneath his western-style two piece suit. He doubles the bet to six thousand.

Moriarty deals the hole cards. Sherlock is surprised that they aren’t using a dealer, but then he supposes there are sensitive things said in this room, and it is, by the standards of the players, a casual game.

Sherlock is dealt the Three of Hearts and the Jack of Diamonds. Not great, but not terrible. They go around the table. Call. Call. Raise to ten thousand. Call. The man to Moriarty’s right folds. Sherlock scrutinizes the other players. The Serbian arms dealer who raised has at least a pair of pocket jacks.

Moriarty deals the flop and calls. Two of Clubs, Five of Diamonds, Ace of Hearts. Sherlock knows the odds of drawing on an inside straight, but he’s playing with Moriarty’s money, so he calls. The yakuza bloke raises to twenty thousand. He’s bluffing. The two players to the yakuza’s left, a Czech businessman and an Eastern European of some stripe (who’s a hacker, by his fingertips), call again. The Serbian calls, too, lost his confidence after the flop. Definitely pocket jacks, then. The final player still in, a British man with his graying hair in a military cut--this must be the infamous Colonel Walter--raises to twenty-five thousand. He’s serious. Sherlock looks over him, considering. There’s a hint of rope burn visible at his cuffs. Submissive. Interesting. His eyes follow Irene as she leaves the room and returns to the club. She must have been the one to administer the ropes. Also interesting. Not surprising, given the latex dress, but interesting. The last player, who’s already folded, sits smoking a cigar.

Moriarty deals the turn, and raises the pot to thirty thousand. Sherlock can’t read him. The turn is the Eight of Spades. It’s not helpful, but he suspects the same is true for his fellow players, so he calls. The yakuza raises to thirty-five thousand. Still bluffing. The businessman and the hacker both fold. The Serbian calls. Walters raises the pot to forty thousand.

The river is the Four of Clubs. Sherlock’s inside straight is completed. Moriarty seems pleased as well, and raises to fifty thousand. Sherlock raises again, to sixty thousand. The yakuza, realizing his bluff is called, folds. The Serbian and Walker both call.

Showdown time. Sherlock wins the hand with his straight. Walter has the Two of Diamonds and the Two of Spades, three of a kind. The Serbian had pocket queens. Moriarty comes in last, having had only the Ace of Spades pre flop and finishing with a pair. Sherlock can’t understand why he didn’t fold.

They play late into the night. Sherlock learns that Moriarty never folds, and seemingly doesn’t care how much he loses. The yakuza frequently (and badly) bluffs. The Czech businessman is conservative, folding on occasions where he might have won. The hacker is reckless and impulsive. Walter is an idiot who doesn’t understand probability. The Serbian is the best player among the group, giving Sherlock a run for the pot.

He feels slightly out of place in his clubwear. Everyone else is wearing a suit, so the temperature is kept cooler in here, and his nipples are hard beneath the fishnet vest. The hacker wins this hand. While all eyes are on him scooping up his chips, Moriarty slides a hand under the table and grips Sherlock’s thigh. It sends a thrill to his cock, which twitches beneath his leather trousers. The hand withdraws just as quickly, however, and they play on.

The Serbian wins in the end. Sherlock has lost close to two hundred thousand koruna, but it’s Moriarty’s money, so he doesn’t care. All in all, it was an entertaining evening, and he suspects it is only about to becomes moreso. The others say their goodnights, disperse, and either leave or head back to the club’s several bars. Moriarty stands and walks to the door to see them out. Sherlock stays behind, the last man at the empty table. He turns the chair to face the doorway, lounges with his legs spread wide.

When he returns, Moriarty lets his eyes rake over him, stares at the bulge beneath the black leather. He straddles Sherlock, legs draped over the sides of his chair, and moves their torsos tight together. Sherlock leans up for a kiss but Moriarty grabs him by the hair and pulls him back, arching his neck. He scents the join between Sherlock’s neck and shoulder, licks his clavicle. He fits his teeth against Sherlock’s Adam’s apple and bites. Sherlock swallows.

“You’re beautiful,” says Moriarty--James, Jim? Sherlock can’t think of him as Moriarty if they’re about to do this. “All that white skin, those long legs, these dark lashes.” He licks Sherlock’s eyelid. “I’m going to ruin you.”

“You’re welcome to try,” says Sherlock.

“I do everything I set out to do.”

Sherlock believes him.

“Come to mine tonight,” says Jim. “I want to fuck you until you can’t see straight. Until you forget your own goddamn name.”

“Yes,” says Sherlock. The buzz in his veins is almost as good as cocaine, and this is the best idea he’s had in weeks, in months, even. Jim is the opposite of boring, and Sherlock wants nothing more than to see what he’s like in bed.

Jim climbs out of his lap, then lifts Sherlock’s chin, inspecting him. His black gaze lays Sherlock bare, it’s almost like being beneath Mycroft’s gaze, he knows he’s being seen, known, except Jim’s glittering eyes make his cock hard. It’s weeping against the suede side of his leather trousers. Jim lifts him up by his jaw and pulls him to standing. They’re in each other’s space--Sherlock is taller, he has to look down--but they don’t kiss. Jim looks at him appraisingly, nods, then whirls on his heel.

“Come with me.”

Sherlock follows him.


	2. Afterglow

Jim takes Sherlock home. Well, to his home in Prague, anyway. An old building above a fine Czech restaurant in the city center. He presses the call button for the lift. The doors open. Sherlock steps in beside him. Jim doesn’t press him against the wall, but he wants to. Sherlock wants it too, he can see it in those dilated silver eyes.

They disembark on the third floor. Jim unlocks the door to his flat. Sherlock pauses in the entryway to unlace those massive combat boots. He’s got a knife in the toe of the right one. Jim frowns, annoyed his hired help missed it, but shrugs it off, toes off his own brogues. There are Persian rugs strewn about the floor. Assorted artifacts from Jim’s world travels nestle into creches in the walls. A mix of modern and folk art, no theme really, just whatever’s caught his fancy. He sees Sherlock take it all in. They walk into the sitting room, which is dominated by a black leather sofa.

“Drink?” he asks.

“No, thank you,” says Sherlock. “But if you don’t mind I’d like to….” he takes a small bag of white powder out of the front left pocket of his leather trousers.

Jim gestures to the glass coffee table in the sitting room.

Sherlock pours half the contents of the bag out, crouches down, and uses a credit card to cut the powder into lines and a rolled 500 koruna note to snort two of them. He stands up, rubs a twitching finger beneath his nose, and passes the improvised straw to Jim.

Jim isn’t one for coke, really, but he kneels in front of the coffee table and does a line. His right nostril burns and his face goes pleasantly numb. Then he grabs Sherlock’s fishnet shirt and rips it bottom to top.

Sherlock staggers, off balance, and Jim pulls him down into a bruising kiss. He presses their mouths so hard together he tastes blood. Sherlock breaks the kiss, tonguing the small cut in his lip over his eye tooth.

“Bed,” says Jim, grabbing the studded leather belt holding up Sherlock’s trousers.

He pulls Sherlock by the belt, walking backwards, leading him into the bedroom. It’s insulated; there are no shared walls between it and the neighboring flats. He intends to make Sherlock scream.

Jim strips out of his own suit, a charcoal Armani, then makes quick work of his shirt and underthings.

Sherlock shrugs out of the remains of the fishnet vest, unbuckles the studded belt. He’s obscene beneath those trousers--Jim can see his erection pushing against the leather and it makes his mouth water. Sherlock pushes the trousers down over his hips--no pants, the tart--and Jim drops to his knees, swallowing him down then and there.

Sherlock gasps, twining his fingers in Jim’s hair, walking backwards until his shins hit the bed.

Jim pursues him, still sucking. He tastes of musk, sweat and leather--it’s overpowering. He releases Sherlock, pauses to lick him from root to tip, then stands up, pushes Sherlock backwards onto the bed and climbs on top of him. “Want to ride you,” he growls into Sherlock’s ear.

“Yes,” Sherlock kicks the trousers down his legs.

Jim peels them the rest of the way off and flings them from the bed, then climbs on top of Sherlock, frots against him, slotting into the positively edible inguinal crease. There’s too much drag. He climbs his way up and over Sherlock’s body and pulls open the nightstand drawer, finds the lube, slathers them up and ruts. Sherlock bucks up against him, hissing as he grinds their erections together. His cock is long and slender and Jim wants it inside him. He crouches over Sherlock, grabs him and lines them up.

There’s a flicker of hesitation on Sherlock’s face. Maybe he’s worried about condoms, maybe he hadn’t expected to end up buried inside Jim tonight. But it fades, and then Sherlock’s fingertips are fluttering against his sides, smoothing, caressing, as Jim bears down. He didn’t use a lot of lube, so it burns a bit, but it’s good, being stretched like this. He squats until he’s fully seated, then arches his head back, cracking his neck. He rolls his hips experimentally. Sherlock groans.

Jim does it again, and again. Sherlock’s fingertips dig into his hips. He crouches, bouncing up and down until his thighs burn, throwing his head back as he rides. It’s fucking splendid. Sherlock is stretching him, splitting him open and he adores every second of it, lets his mind empty and his vision blur around the edges. 

His legs are beginning to cramp, so he shifts to his knees, falling forward with his hands bracketing Sherlock’s head. Sherlock cranes his neck up for a kiss. It’s loose and sloppy, more panting into one another’s mouths than kissing. Jim rocks his hips back and forth, grinding. Sherlock holds him, hands at his waist, thrusting up from below.

Sherlock draws his leg up outside Jim’s, nudging Jim’s hip, and after a few seconds Jim obliges him and rolls over. They stay coupled. Sherlock is on top of him now, pinning him down. Fuck. Jim tilts his hips up, taking Sherlock deeper, and wraps his legs around Sherlock’s waist. Yes. Every thrust is scraping his prostate at this angle and it’s heaven. Sherlock pounds and pounds and Jim had forgotten what it’s like, fucking a cokehead. He wonders if Sherlock is even capable of achieving orgasm, and whether he’s willing to chase it all night.

“Fuck,” Sherlock snarls, snapping his hips.

Jim laughs. “That all you got?”

Sherlock pulls out, sitting back on his heels and pushing his curls off his forehead. His face is red. “Turn over.”

Jim obliges, rolling onto his stomach.

“Arse in the air.”

Something in his tone makes something clench in Jim’s belly. He draws his knees up and lifts his hips. Sherlock grabs his hips and drives into him, pushing him forward into the mattress so hard it pushes the breath out of his body. Oh. He claws the bedsheets for purchase. Sherlock presses a hand against the small of his back, shoves him down, and fucks, oh how he fucks, hips snapping and rippling. Jim hangs on to the bed and takes it. He’s going to feel this tomorrow. He wants to have to perch in front of his laptop. He wants to bruise. He wants to bleed. He wants for Sherlock to split him in half.

Sherlock grabs the headboard for leverage and fucks Jim into the mattress. It’s brilliant. He’s balanced on his knees and forearms and he keeps sliding forward. Sherlock pins his neck to the bed. He can barely breathe. His blood pounds in his ears. He claws the bedsheets, digging his nails into the cotton. Sherlock’s flesh smacks against his again and again.

“Can you come like this?” Sherlock’s voice is raspy.

“No,” says Jim. But he doesn’t mind.

Sherlock kneels up, adjusts the angle, and yes, that’s better, that’s the spot. He groans. Sherlock slows down but ups the intensity, grabbing him by the hips and snapping hard, bottoming out with each thrust. He’s brutal, targeting Jim’s prostate each time. It’s too intense for Jim to come, and that is fine, that’s splendid. There’s a pleasant buzz in his blood from the coke. His heart’s racing. His torso sticks to his sides with sweat. Sherlock takes and takes and it’s shaking him apart.

Suddenly, Sherlock loops an arm under Jim’s hips and rears up, pulling Jim with him. He leans back, pulls Jim so his back is flush with Sherlock’s chest. There’s no real leverage for him to thrust in this position, so Jim grinds instead, circling his hips. Sherlock runs one hand up the length of Jim’s torso, wrapping around his neck. He uses the other hand to stroke Jim off, hard and fast. Twist, pull, twist, pull. Jim circles his hips all the while. The combination of sensations is heady. Sherlock squeezes his throat, putting just enough pressure that he has to work to breathe. Jim wants him to press harder, to choke him until he blacks out. He leans into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock takes the hint, squeezing tighter and pulling harder, and Jim can feel his orgasm just out of reach. He wants to draw this out, but Sherlock has other ideas, tightening both hands. His vision turns green at the edges as he comes.

Sherlock strokes him through it and a little beyond, then slumps, still inside Jim.

“Do you want me on my hands and knees again?” Jim asks.

Sherlock shakes his head. “No. It’s fine.”

Jim shifts forward onto his knees, letting Sherlock slither out of him. He flops onto the bed, face down, then rolls onto his back and beckons Sherlock to him.

Sherlock lies down in the crook of Jim’s arm.

Jim wraps around him, pressing their sweaty bodies close together. Sherlock’s cock is still hard, pressing at his belly. He reaches down and strokes it, idly, sliding his hand up the shaft and making a circle against the corona with his thumb.

Sherlock shakes his head. “Don’t bother.”

Jim kisses him, soft and slow, taking Sherlock’s lower lip between his teeth. This is the best bit for him. The afterglow. That release of oxytocin. The liminal space between the frantic race for orgasm and the return to the mundane world. He traces a spiral on Sherlock’s bicep with his finger. Sherlock at least seems amenable to kissing and cuddling. So many of them just want to roll over and sleep.

Eventually, Sherlock’s cock goes soft. They lay entangled on the sheets. Sherlock is studying him, cataloguing Jim’s scars, no doubt. The marks of childhood scrapes and beatings. A stab wound between his floating ribs on the right side. Cigarette burn on his inner wrist. A few of Irene’s cuts from their last session across his thighs.

Sherlock is too polite (or too clever) to say anything, but he takes everything in. Then he scoots closer, pressing his forehead against Jim’s, and then slides upward, kissing the top of Jim’s head.

“Tell me a story,” Jim demands.

Sherlock pulls back, peers down at him. “What kind of story?”

“About your brother.”

Sherlock sighs.

“When you were younger.”

“Mycroft was a fat child. He’s got a weakness for sweets, especially pastry. He was portly until he went to uni, and then hormones got to him, I suppose, and he decided he’d like to get laid and hit the gym. He still struggles with it, though. He’s always hungry. For food. For knowledge. For power. None of it will ever be enough. He always wants more, but he denies himself. Or makes a show of doing so, anyway.”

Jim smiles. He’s seen them, of course. The photos that Holmes hasn’t managed to purge from the record: school yearbook pictures and one mention of an award winning science project in a local newspaper. A round-faced, heavy-bodied figure with curly hair. But it’s interesting to hear Sherlock’s perspective, biased though it may be.

He touches Sherlock’s hair. Those curls are so tempting. So soft. His fingers slip through them.

Sherlock smiles crookedly, then rolls away, stretching his impossibly long torso over the edge of the bed as he fumbles for his trousers. “I need another hit. Want one?”

Jim ignores him and stares at the ceiling. It’s glossy and gray, its expanse broken by a modern chandelier.

Sherlock snatches his trousers up, triumphant, and removes the little bag. He dumps the remaining coke on the nightstand and snorts two more lines. Then he slides back into bed.

“Leave,” says Jim. He doesn’t look at him.

Sherlock shifts on the bed, surprised. Then he gets up and picks his clothes of the floor and struggles into them, balancing precariously on first one leg, then the other as he pulls on his socks. He puts his trousers next, and tosses the ruined fishnet top in the bin with a thwack.

“I’ll see myself out,” he says, and walks out of the bedroom.

Jim can hear him in the hall: the thump of his combat boots, the sharp slam of the door.

He should get up and lock it. Instead he rolls over onto his belly. The sheets still smell like sex. He closes his eyes, even though he knows he won’t sleep. He’s crashing. He should have taken Sherlock up on his offer of more coke. But that would only have postponed the effects ‘till morning. Morning. He dreads it. Another day at the office. Sometimes he just wants to let it all collapse. Let the minions fight over the pieces. Fuck the missile plans and fuck Mycroft Holmes. Fuck his brother.

He regrets sending Sherlock away. It would be better to have a warm body to shiver against. But what’s done is done. He shifts onto his back. He can at least lie still for a few hours until the sun comes up.


	3. Authorization Code

“So what’s the plan, my dear?” asks Jim. He’s chewing gum and leaning back in a swivel chair. They’re in one of Jim’s offices in Prague--logistics company in the city center with windows overlooking the Vltava. From what Sherlock can tell, they actually do some legitimate customs brokerage and freight forwarding, but it’s a smuggling outfit, too. Obradović--the Serbian he met at the poker game--seems to run the place, but Jim is apparently a frequent visitor. The two of them are sitting at a round conference table with Walter. Sherlock is pacing a slow circle around it.

“Our mark is a man called Andrew ‘Westie’ West, who’s an engineer on the Bruce Partington project. Westie is gay, closeted, soon to be married, and rather desperate to do some wild-oat-sowing.” Walter’s eyebrows rise. “What makes you say that?”

“Please.” Sherlock pulls up a photo on his phone and slides it onto the table. “Isn’t it obvious? This is a picture he posted on his Facebook account. Tinted eyelashes. Clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired, clubber’s eyes. Then there’s his underwear.”

“His underwear?” asks Walter.

“Visible above the waistline--very visible, very particular brand.”

Jim pops his gum. “Cocksox.”

“Quite. Back to the clubber’s eyes; there’s a venue called Fire near Vauxhall Cross where he sometimes goes after work. I plan on intercepting him there.”

Walter’s lips purse in distaste. “And then what, you’ll plant something at his flat?”

“No. I’m going to steal the plans.”

“I’ve already got the plans.”

“Yes, but their theft would be traced back to you. Mr Moriarty has asked me for a frame job good enough to fool my brother--the only way that’s happening is if we actually steal the plans from someone else.”

Jim chuckles. “I should have gone to you in the first place. Spared the Colonel’s fee.”

“The plans are highly technical,” Walter interjects. “You will still need assistance interpreting them.”

“Did you know I’ve a DOM? I mean I’ve a doctorate in mathematics, though I’ve Irene, too. But don’t worry, I’m just teasing you. You’ll get your money. We wouldn’t know about the project at all if you hadn’t tipped off Irene.”

“Anyway, stealing the plans won’t be easy. They’ll be on a hardened laptop, protected by a password with two factor authentication.”

“Leave that bit to me,” says Sherlock.

 

* * *

 

Fire nightclub is a low-slung tube with arched, concrete ceilings. The club’s logo is written out in LEDs along one wall. Sherlock weaves through the crowds of people writhing to the bass, their faces illuminated by flashes of light spun out from the DJ booth. He finds Westie standing with his back against the wall. Under the club’s lights, his teak-colored skin looks blue. Sherlock makes eye contact, raising his arms above his head and swiveling his hips to the beat.

Westie watches, and moves up off the wall, likes what he sees. He moves forward towards Sherlock, puts his hands on Sherlock’s hips. Sherlock grinds close, pressing the front of his tattered jeans against Westie’s thigh.

“What’s your name?” Westie shouts over the thudding music.

“Tommy!”

“I’m Westie,” the man snugs their bodies together. He’s an awkward dancer. Sherlock has to bend his knees because of their height difference.

“Why don’t we get out of here?” asks Sherlock.

“Where to?”

“Yours?”

Westie shakes his head. “I have a fiancée.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Mine?”

“Sure.”

Sherlock takes Westie by the hand and together they weave through the crowd, jostling the dancers. They stop at the coat check and retrieve Sherlock’s leather jacket and Westie’s pea coat and briefcase. There’s a laptop in there. Good.

Outside, the air is cool. A fog blows in from the Thames. Sherlock snakes his arm around Westie and walks towards the SIS building. It amuses him, being directly under Mycroft’s enormous nose. And his brother will never know he was here.

They can walk from here to “Tommy’s” flat. It’s another one of Jim’s properties, three rooms in one of the modern, glass lego buildings on St George’s Wharf. Westie is impressed and slightly uncomfortable. Good.

Sherlock snogs him senseless in the lift, sliding his hands up Westie’s t-shirt.

Westie drops the briefcase and moans, pulling Sherlock to him. “Fuck,” he whispers.

Sherlock pulls the key out of his wallet and lets them in. The furnishings are all modern, glass and chrome. It’s cold, and he doesn’t particularly care for it, but he’s only staying here a few days.

Westie glances around. “Nice place you have here.”

“It’s my dad’s. I just live here.”

“Still.”

“Drink?” asks Sherlock.

“Water if you have it. I’m parched.”

Sherlock grabs a glass from the cabinet and heads for the double-door stainless steel fridge. There’s ice and water in the door. He fills the glass, then hands it to Westie.

“Thanks.”

“So where do you work?” Sherlock leans against the kitchen island.

Westie smiles mysteriously. “Oh, you know. MI6.”

“You’re taking the piss.”

“‘M not,” says Westie. “I like to go to Fire after work.”

“So what do you do?” asks Sherlock. “Or is it one of those things where you’d have to kill me if you tell me?”

“I’d have to kill you.”

“Wow. I’m about to shag a spy.”

“Yeah.”

Westie moves in close. His smile is shy. His lips are full.

Sherlock kisses him.

Westie is surprisingly tender. He slides his hands up Sherlock’s white vest and circles them behind his back.

Sherlock leans down into the kiss, tangles his fingers in Westie’s coily, springy-soft hair. “Bedroom?” he asks.

Westie nods.

Sherlock pulls out of his embrace and leads him into the bedroom. There’s an enormous, king-sized slab of a mattress on a low platform, no headboard. He lays down on top of the black duvet and reaches a hand for Westie, who follows him down. They roll facing each other and kiss again, hands up one another’s shirts, legs tangled. Westie’s erection presses against Sherlock’s thigh. He’s keen.

“You’re so beautiful,” says Westie, stroking Sherlock’s curls. “Why’d you pick me?”

Sherlock sucks at Westie’s lower lip. “You’re beautiful, too.”

They shuck off their trousers. Westie is indeed wearing cocksox. Mesh lace sports briefs with a neon green waistband. Sherlock pauses to admire the view before edging them down over his hips. Westie’s cock is purple with blood. Sherlock presses his lips to the head, licking around the corona before sliding his head down.

“Fuck!” Westie stammers. “Fuck, Tommy, fuck.”

Sherlock sucks, wrapping his lips around Westie’s shaft and moving his head up and down.

“Oh, god,” Westie’s fingers tangle in his hair. “You’re too fucking good at this. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to--”

Sherlock comes up for air. “You can pull my hair if you want.”

Westie’s fingers tighten in his curls, he tugs lightly, then harder, guiding Sherlock’s head at the pace he wants. Sherlock relaxes his throat and swallows Westie down, pressing his lips against his groin, the small spheres of pubic hair that dot the soft skin around his cock.

When he comes up, he uses his hand, moving it in synchrony with his mouth. He sucks and pulls, sucks and pulls, swirling his tongue around the head as Westie groans and holds onto his hair.

“Please,” Westie moans. “Please, if you don’t stop I’m going to--”

Sherlock sucks hard and moves his fingers behind Westie’s bollocks, pressing hard against his perineum. The muscles of his thighs are taught. He arches up off the bed and then pulses hard, bitter come filling Sherlock’s mouth.

“Fuck.” Westie slumps back onto his elbows. “That was…. Damn. You’re good at this.”

Sherlock rolls over on his side and smiles. He’s desperate for another hit, but he doesn’t know how Westie will react. Finally he decides it’s his place and opens the nightstand, removes another bag, dumps it on top. “Want some?” he asks.

“Can’t,” says Westie. “They drug test at work.”

Sherlock shapes a line with a piece of cardstock and snorts it with the pre-cut straw stashed with his coke. “Pity.” He rubs underneath his nose. “What do you really do?” he asks. “Sorry, but I don’t think you’re a real spy. Can’t really picture a guy like you garroting someone in an alleyway.”

Westie grimaces. “You’re right, I’m not. But still my work is highly classified. I’m the lead engineer on a top secret project.”

“Oh like, nuclear submarines? That sort of thing?”

Westie smiles. “ICBMs. _That_ sort of thing.”

“Ooh,” says Sherlock. “So, have you ever seen a nuclear warhead up close?”

“Yup,” says Westie. “And I designed missiles to carry them.”

Sherlock licks his lips and darts his eyes towards Westie’s groin suggestively. “I bet you did.”

Westie laughs. “But I’m neglecting you.”

He moves his hand down Sherlock’s torso towards his half-hard cock. Sherlock playfully bats it away. “It’s fine. Don’t think I can come right now.”

“Oh,” Westie frowns.

Sherlock kisses his jaw. “Show me,” he whispers in his ear.

“What?”

“Your missile.” Sherlock giggles.

“I can’t.”

“Come on, just a sneak peek. It’s not like I’ve got cameras in here.”

“No? You’re not some kinky freak?”

“Hardly.”

“Fine. But it’s not much to look at if you’re not an aerospace engineer.”

Westie gets out of bed, still naked, and pads barefoot back into the entryway, returning with his briefcase. He sets it on top of the bed. Sherlock sits up and watches with feigned casualness.

Westie extracts his laptop and sits cross-legged, placing it across his knees. He turns it on.

Sherlock looks over his shoulder.

Westie types his credentials into the login screen.

**User: Andrew West**

**Password: DAzke^J1$**

Sherlock commits it to memory.

The computer spins, then prompts him:

**Authorization code:**

Westie extracts his keyring from the bottom of his briefcase and picks up a key fob. There’s a code on the small LCD screen. He types it into the computer.

**3520391**

“Fancy,” says Sherlock.

“Changes every fifteen minutes,” says Westie. “You can’t view anything unless you have the code.”

Sherlock hums and puts his head against Westie’s shoulder, nibbling on his earlobe.

Westie’s computer boots. He clicks onto a group of files marked “Bruce-Partington Project.”

A series of schematics comes up. Sherlock understands physics well enough, but he’s not an aerospace engineer, as Westie observed. He wouldn’t be able to recreate these without being able to study them intensely.

“Sexy,” he says, playing with a coil of hair at Westie’s nape. “It’s such a shame you’ve got a fiancée.”

Westie sighs. “It’s complicated. I’ve got a really conservative family. They expect me to marry a good, Christian girl.”

“But you don’t want to.”

“No.”

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock traces Westie’s face, running his fingers along his jaw.

Westie leans into the kiss.

“Maybe just… forget about her. For tonight.”

“You want me to stay?” asks Westie.

“Would you?”

Westie bites his lip. “I can only stay a couple hours. My fiancée will bitch if I stay out all night.”

“Where does she think you are?”

“Clubbing with friends.”

Sherlock nods. Then he stands up. “Want a nightcap?”

“Sure. Got any beer?”

“Yeah.” Sherlock walks into the kitchen. Through the open bedroom door, he can see Westie pack away his laptop.

Sherlock opens the fridge and grabs a Heineken. He opens it against the kitchen island and pours it into a glass, then fetches another for himself. He opens the kitchen cabinet and removes the Ambien he stashed earlier. He crushes it between two spoons and stirs it into Westie’s beer until it dissolves. He carries the drinks back into the bedroom.

Westie has made himself comfortable under the covers and folded the duvet back for Sherlock.

Sherlock hands him the beer and climbs into bed. “Cheers, mate,” they clink glasses.

“To forgetting for one night,” says Westie.

Sherlock smiles.

After they finish their drinks, they roll over and snuggle. Sherlock lets Westie lie against his chest and strokes the springy coils of his hair. In under an hour, Westie falls asleep.

Sherlock gently extracts himself from beneath Westie’s body and climbs out of bed. He dresses in the dark, putting on his jeans and vest from before. Westie’s briefcase is propped against his side of the bed. Sherlock unzips it and cautiously removes Westie’s two-factor authorization key fob off its ring and jams it into his pocket. He sets the keys on top of the nightstand--it’d be a dick move not to leave Westie with a way home--and picks up Westie’s briefcase. He grabs his leather jacket on the way out.

Well, that’ll get Westie’s--and Mycroft’s--attention. Walter will continue to fly under the radar. And Jim will be pleased. Somehow that prospect excites him most of all.


End file.
